“Is your back better?” said Milly at last. “I’m so glad the doctor let us come.”
“Haven’t you got a bump?” asked Olly, looking at her with all his eyes. “We thought you’d have a great black bump on your fore-head, you know—ever so big.”
“No, it’s a cut,” said Becky; “there now, you can see how it’s plastered up.”
“Did it hurt?” said Olly, “did you kick? I should have kicked. And does the doctor give you nasty medicine?”
“No,” said Becky, “I don’t have any now. And it wasn’t nasty at all what I had first. And now I may have strawberries and raspberries, and Mr. Wheeler sends mother a plate everyday.”
“I don’t think it’s fair that little boys shouldn’t never be ill,” said Olly, with his eyes fastened on Becky’s plate of strawberries, which was on the chest of drawers.
“Oh, you funny boy,” said Milly, “why, mother gives you some every day though you aren’t ill; and I’m sure you wouldn’t like staying in bed.”
“Yes, I should,” said Olly, just for the sake of contradicting. “Do you know, Becky, we’ve got a secret, and we’re not to tell it you, only Milly and I are going to—”
“Don’t!” said Milly, putting her hand over, his mouth. “You’ll tell in a minute. You’re always telling secrets.”
“Well, just half, Milly, I won’t tell it all you know. It’s just like something burning inside my mouth. We’re going to make you something, Becky, when we get home. Something be—ootiful, you know. And you can look at it in bed, and we won’t make it big, so you can turn over the pages, and—”